For those Below
by the return of merry
Summary: Uni/Modern AU: Between Marius joining the group after a chance taxi ride with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, Enjolras and Grantaire doing brunch and the ever-lurking danger presented by Montparnasse and his Bronx-based band of thugs, college is bound to be eventful.


Looking back on it, Marius decides, he could probably have handled the entire situation better. What had begun as a slightly annoying and much too loud attempt on his grandfather's behalf to help him decide on his future had turned into a shouting match of epic proportions, with the old man hovering before his favourite chair like an incensed ghost of Christmas Present and Marius in the doorframe, hands balled into fists.

"My father never studied business, either, and he was - " Marius had begun, only to be cut off by a wild swing of his grandfather's cane and an animalistic snarl the likes of which he hadn't known the man to be capable of.

"Your father was a communist, Reagan-hating liberal bastard!" had been his grandfather's response, and that was the death of the few ounces of matter Marius had previously been able to call his common sense.

Charging into his attic bedroom, he had thrown whatever was in arm's reach into a backpack, broken open his piggy bank, stuffed the wad of cash into his back pocket, and exited with a middle finger thrust firmly in the air, a pair of brilliantly red cheeks and a panted, half-strangled cry of, "Fuck Ronald Reagen and the Republican party! Long live Mao Zedong!"

Yes, he thinks, his glassy, blue eyes raking over the mismatched bundle of wrinkled t-shirts, socks, underwear and Ironman action figures bulging through the broken zipper of his bacpack; yes, he could probably, definitely have handled that better.

The intensity of his own rage thrills him regardless.

His grandfather's face as he left, those enraged eyes bulging, round stomach sucked flat in pure shock - at any other time, he would have paid dearly to see the old man shut up so soundly, so brilliantly. Even now, in the face of sudden homelessness and financial instability, Marius can barely bite back the wide grin that threatens to split his face in half. Granted, he is sitting in a taxi with no destination and little more than three hundred dollars in his pocket. And yes, he has no friends to call on for help. He has no other family to fall back on. It is an admittedly precarious situation and one that would have sent the Marius of yesterday to sulk in his room, but the Marius of today is thrilled. He grins. He laughs in the face of danger. He even, in a fit of inspiration, begs the taxi driver to make a pit stop at a convenience store so that he can buy himself a pack of cigarettes.

It matters not at all that he has never smoked before in his life, no - what matters is that the Marius of today is a smoker. He is a rebel of the likes of James Dean, all white t-shirt and Levi's and Marlboros rolled into his sleeves, staring moodily into the sideview mirror and watching his fingers coolly lift the brown tip of the cigarette to his lips before dropping it suddenly in a panic and moving to roll the window up as the driver begings to shout something about no smoking in his taxi, goddammit.

So, he settles for staring intently at the grimy facade of the building next to them, the red light they are stuck at, the scuffs he acquired on the toes of his leather shoes on the way down his grandfather's front stoop. His hands are clammy, he realises suddenly, sparing a glance at the moist pack of cigarettes he had been clutching in them. Just as he moves to wipe them on the knees of his jeans, the door of the taxi swings open violently, and Marius finds himself smashed against the far window while a loud, laughing voice defeans his right ear, calling for the driver to head off in the direction of Union Square.

"We'll have to pick up something to eat before the me - " begins the voice again before inhaling sharply; large, warm brown eyes blink back into his own, crinkling at the edges against the crack of an impossibly wide grin, and the voice booms, "Oh, hello! We seem to have hijacked your taxi!"

He could kick them out and carry on in the direction of nowhere. Or shrug and brush it off, because can you really hijack something that was drifting aimlessly, to begin with? He could introduce himself, thinks Marius quickly. Or smile. Or respond in any way. He settles instead for stuffing the packet of cigarettes into his jeans, his teeth clenched in a grimace, cheeks flooding with warmth.

"Are you a tourist?"

Another voice snakes its way around the wide-mouthed, jovial creature at Marius's side. "I know you," says the second voice, leaning into view. His shiny, brown head gleams with sweat that he swipes at and wipes down the front of his t-shirt. "You're Pommercy! You were in my Comp II class; I leant you my book once for the book check!"

"Pontmercy," corrects Marius automatically, wringing his hands. "Er, Marius. And thanks again, I guess."

"Lesgle. My friends call me Bossuet," Lesgle somehow manages to extend his hand through the crook of his beaming friend's elbow for Marius to shake. "No problem. I forget my own books so often, I was hoping karma'd return the favour sometime for a good deed."

"It won't," cuts in the first voice cheerfully, extending his own hand. "I'm Courfeyrac. You can call me Courfeyrac, and excuse me for prying - or really, don't excuse me, I'm curious by nature and not sorry - but are you going camping?"

It is Marius's turn to beam; the thrill of his afternoon's adventures surges through his veins as he holds out the backpack that Courfeyrac had gestured. "I ran away from home," he says proudly. "And now I'm living in this taxi, until I can find somewhere else to go, so, by all means, hijack away."

Courfeyrac's hands on his shoulder are too warm and moist with sweat, and the taxi itself is stifling, but Marius can do little more than grin dazedly as his new friends direct the driver to a second address. Courfeyrac, leaning back, sighs in contentment and says fondly, "You'll love my place, Marius. Everyone does. And I get a five percent discount when I bring in new lodgers, so it's perfect."

The place in question turns out to be a dingy, cramped hostel (auberge de jeunesse, insists Courfeyrac in mock-offence, tugging him through the open doorway). For twenty five dollars and twelve cents a night, Marius is granted a creaky twin bed in Courfeyrac's double bedroom, a key card, a coupon for a free continental breakfast and the code to the hostel's free wifi (slow and kicks you off every five minutes, but beggars can't be choosers for twenty five dollars a night, says Courfeyrac, clapping him on the back). It could have been a crackhouse, for all Marius cares; more importantly, it's his (for as long as his money lasts), and he thanks Courfeyrac profusely as the other tosses a pile of t-shirts onto his bed to make place for Marius's clothes in the single dresser they are to share.

"Don't thank me until you've had the scrambled eggs for breakfast," Courfeyrac warns, but Marius, mid-way through opening his laptop, doesn't hear him.

Not wanting to be a bother to his more than gracious host, Marius finds a quiet corner of the hostel common room to settle down in with his laptop and untouched packet of cigarettes. His plans, which mostly include browsing aimlessly through his tumblr dashboard and making excuses not to go outside and attempt another smoke, are shot to hell twenty three hours in, when Courfeyrac pulls up outside of the convenience store he has been loitering in front of with an unlit cigarette clutched firmly in his left hand, rolls down the window of the taxi he's hired and shouts, "Get in, bitch. We're going shopping."

"We're actually going to a party in your honour," Courfeyrac explains helpfully once Marius has buckled himself into the backseat with a mumbled protest about lacking the necessary funds. "And since you have no friends, I'm going to introduce you to mine." He swivels around from where he is perched in the passenger's seat, peering at Marius through the headrest with one of his trade-mark beams. "This - " his hand nearly collides with the driver's nose, extending to point at a lanky, bored-looking black kid in a pair of violently plaid pants, "is Bahorel, the loveliest bastard you'll ever meet."

The plaid-wearing bastard addressed as Bahorel grins crookedly, swiping a hand through his short mohawk before offering it to Marius. "Fuck you, Courfeyrac," he sneers, but his lips twist into a begrudging smile when Courfeyrac blows him a kiss and directs Marius's attention to the scowling red-head wedged between them.

"Feuilly," grunts the redhead, reaching across Courfeyrac's outstretched fingers to snatch the cigarette he keeps behind his ear. "And don't look at me like that; you owe me like five packs by now."

"Real friends don't keep count," sniffs Courfeyrac with mock-derision, then brightens again, a new cigarette already in place. "Anyways, guys, this is Marius."

"No shit," snorts Bahorel.

"Oh, really?" Feuilly raises an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac's sigh is defeaning and pelts him with warm, moist air as he leans further into the back to flick Feuilly's forehead and snatch up the stolen cigarette. "Don't listen to these idiots, Marius," he says in a stage whisper, winking conspiratorially. "They're bad examples of my friends, anyway. All the cool ones are already at Enjolras's having fun without us."

The first "cool friend" that shakes his hand is a tall, serious-looking guy who polishes his glasses with an actual glasses cloth while Courfeyrac complains about the poor company in their taxi. "Combeferre," he says softly, and steps casually to the left to avoid being trampled by Bahorel, who gallops into the hall beyond with a war cry to tackle someone out of sight.

Marius is affronted by Joly's panicked cries from where he is pinned beneath Bahorel's plaid-covered knees before he can catch a sight of the red nose and wide, blue eyes, but his hellos are cut short by Courfeyrac's insistent hand at his elbow as he is lead from the dark, polished mahogany entrance hall and into the kitchen. They cut around a stainless steel fridge that looks to have seen better days (namely, ones in which it had not been molested by tens of grimy, beer-slicked hands - "Fridge doors are like petri dishes for staphylococcus!" screams Joly from under Bahorel's thigh) and almost stumble into what, had it not been almost entirely concealed by about fifteen long rows of shot glasses filled with something red (the empty wine bottles strewn across the counter speak volumes), could possibly be a kitchen table. Half-hidden by the mess, a skinny, scruffy-looking boy glares out at them from beneath a mop of tangled black hair, his blue eyes glassy in a way that signifies to Marius that this is probably not his first round of drinks. Probably not even the second, come to think of it.

He throws them a lopsided grin that misses its target entirely and ends up directed at the corner of the fridge instead, his nostrils flared in concentration as he presses his hands into the middle of the shot glass assembly and announces to no-one in particular, "Enjolras said I'm not allowed into his father's liquor stash anymore, so I went for the wine. I'm re-enacting the Old Testament in his honour."

"Turning water into wine?" inquires Courfeyrac distractedly, leaning down to sniff at one of the glasses.

"No, that's the New Testament, you twat." His hands begin to separate from one another, forcing the glasses into two equal groups along the table before snatching up a few and knocking them back in rapid procession. When he grins at them, Marius notices, wincing slightly, his teeth are stained red and a dribble of wine is making good time from the corner of his mouth to his chin. "_Moses parting the Red Sea._"

He cannot help but imagine the horror his aunt would have felt upon discovering this creature, with his red mouth and ruddy face, in her own kitchen, but Courfeyrac pats the sharp jut of a shoulder bone poking out from beneath a threadbare black t-shirt with a fond sigh. "There's probably no point introducing you two yet, as you'll have forgotten all about this in about four hours, but for Marius's sake - " Two rows of glasses are depleted the time it takes the creature to roll his eyes. "Marius, Grantaire, who will probably get himself kicked out soon enough, so take the time to get to know him now while I get us something to drink."

Any inclinations to protest being left alone with Grantaire die in his throat as Courfeyrac ambles off. For his part, Grantaire has worked his way through a goodly portion of the wine and adopts an awkward reclining pose against the wall that looks utterly excrutiating despite his vague grin. "So, you're the stray cat Courf found in his taxi," he offers.

"Er, I'm Marius, yes." What was that about a stray cat? Grantaire's eyes slide down the length of the sweatshirt Courfeyrac had leant him, taking in his scuffed shoes and the bulge of the cigarettes he still hasn't been able to work up the nerve to actually smoke in his front pocket. "I, ah - " A crash and a muffled curse save him the trouble of a further response, and he swings his head around just in time, mentally singing praises to every God in the history of Gods for the interruption, to catch Courfeyrac stumbling over a tastefully striped couch cushion, bottle of Jack Daniels in hand.

"No," says Courfeyrac pointedly, and Grantaire returns to sulkily downing the remainder of his wine with a grumble that sounds suspiciously like 'commie bastard'. "Democratic socialist, excuse you. And here, Marius, grab a glass and a can of Coke from the fridge, while - _no you don't, you miserable asshole, I had to swear on my mother's grave that I wouldn't give you any before I was allowed to have this!"_

"Fuck you, your mom lives in Perth Amboy!"

"And I'd like to keep it that way, so get your grimy paws off!"

Somewhere between Grantaire's pointy elbow and the deluge of profanity from Courfeyrac's wide mouth as his head is held against the fridge door, Marius manages to grab himself a can of Coke and the bottle of whisky and make a hasty escape. He picks his way carefully through an impromptu game of poker fanned across the floor beside the staircase ("That was a royal flush, motherfuckers; you know nothing about poker!" Joly has to duck beneath Bossuet's elbow to avoid taking one of Bahorel's heavy-soled shoes to the face), sipping absently from the can while his eyes adjust to the dim light of what appears to be a living room. For all the grandeur of his grandfather's antique mahogany furniture and heavily papered walls, Marius can't help but suck in a breath of surprise as he examines the rest of the ground floor of the brownstone.

Do people actually live like this? The ceilings rise to a vault that curves elegantly down to connect with the far wall and massive, curved window. A pair of silver bookends gleam from opposite ends of a line of titles in a language Marius can't make heads nor tales of atop the mantlepiece and - oh holy hell - wads of fifty dollar bills and more colourful, foreign currencies are actually spilling haphazardly from a bowl on the antique coffee table. A hand so pale it practically glows in the dim light cards through them distractedly, and Marius, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the light, follows the line of a well-cut button down, through a nest of wild, blond curls and into the sharpest pair of blue eyes he has ever seen before in his life.

"You're Marius."

Something about the blond's stiff posture, or perhaps his piercing gaze, or even the fact that he is lounging on a sofa, looking utterly bored, with his right hand knuckle-deep in a bowlful of money, says that this is Enjolras, the party's host. A very unwilling, displeased host, now that the shock of an actual bowl of money has worn off enough for Marius to take a closer look at him. If the party had been one of his own ideas, the blond - Enjolras - does an admirable job of hiding it.

"Enjolras." He bends slightly at the waist to extend his hand.

"Marius," repeats Marius blankly, ignoring the little voice at the back of his head that chides him for repeating something that Enjolras clearly already knows. Enjolras, Marius is certain, probably knows a lot of things. Things like Marius's name, for example, and the amount of cash currently spilling from the bowl that he has yet to withdraw his hand from and the fact that Grantaire has lit up in his kitchen (this, to be fair, is announced to all of them in the form of Courfeyrac threatening to toss Grantaire from the window if he does not take his sorry ass - and his cigarette - outside stat).

It would probably say volumes about Enjolras's fairness or his down-to-earthness or whatever else that he only inclines his head and shakes Marius's hand with the smallest of smiles rather than acknowledge the fact that his brain seems to have turned to mash potato, and Marius would appreciate that, really, if his brain was not currently caught up in the process of puréeing itself. Making a point to appreciate that tomorrow, he drops his hands to his side, raises it again to consider taking a sip of Coke, decides against it, and drops his hand again, his cheeks flushing.

Enjolras follows the path of his gaze down to the table between him, where the transluscent skin of his hand stands out like a beacon against the deeper green of a hundred dollar bill.

"My father empties his pockets into these bowls every time he stops by."

"Oh."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he withdraws his hand from the bowl and turns to stare at Marius as though he has never seen a human being before. His tone is stiff, clipped, as he continues: "No man should ever have so much money that he forgets about what anyone else would consider small fortunes balled up in his suit jacket and tosses them into some ridiculously overpriced decoration bowl like normal people do with their small change." If disgust had a face, he decides, it would look a lot like Enjolras's. The same curved, pink lips, wild hair and straight nose, which wrinkles suddenly in response to an ominous sloshing sound from the kitchen. It's all Marius can do to keep from stumbling over his own two feet as Enjolras pushes past him, marble cheeks reddening, and snarls, "That idiot is going to destroy the entire house," before bolting into the archway leading into the kitchen, where a dazed-looking Courfeyrac sways, staring into an empty wine bottle.

What follows is a series of alarming crashes, the smack of what could very well have been someone's hand across the back of Grantaire's head, and an earl-splitting howl of, "Ow - ah - I am the capitoul and the master of the floral games!"

Sliding into Enjolras's recently occupied place on the couch, Marius shakes his head helplessly. In all the lonely, boring years spent watching his aunt knit and cowering before his grandfather's cane, he had often taken the time to dwell on the idea of friends. He had imagined them all to be, well, very much like he was himself. Thoughtful, somewhat shy - a direct contrast to the boom of Bahorel's laugh as he ruffles the hair of a slender blond boy in a lurid pink sweatshirt, the very opposite of Courfeyrac's boisterous shouts of support for Enjolras, who, from the sound of it, is attempting to bodily remove an unwilling Grantaire from his kitchen ("You turned it into a massive ashtray!" "It was the will of God!" "For fuck's sake, Grantaire, you ashed your cigarettes across the entire counter!" "Mortal, do not question the ways of the Lord!"); these are the types of friends his grandfather would probably revel in, that his aunt would balk at, and, leaning as deep into the surprisingly soft cushions of the couch as he can, Marius can not help but grin through the pleasant flush of warmth that floods his cheeks at the sight of them.

The flush drains quickly, however, when Grantaire flings himself, red-faced and puffing, onto the couch at his side.

"Jesus Christ, Enjolras," he whines, but is cut off by the pillow Courfeyrac slams over his face.

"You don't believe in Jesus Christ, Grantaire," he admonishes in sing-song.

Grantaire snarls at him, but ploughs on unperturbed a moment later in the same obnoxious, carrying tone, "Holy fucking way to be an asshole Batman." His eyes search Courfeyrac's broad face for approval, which is given in the form of a light flick to the forehead.

Courfeyrac, falling into Grantaire's lap with a groan, says authoritatively, "Better. Carry on."

"As I was saying," grunting, he struggles to pull himself into an upright position from beneath Courfeyrac's deadweight, "you can't just strut into the kitchen in the middle of a very serious Bible reenactment, interrupting me in the middle of said reenactment, and - _holy shit, that is not real money!_"

It is a close call, but ultimately Courfeyrac succeeds in slapping his friend's hands away from the bowl while Enjolras settles in a huff atop the armrest. Had the full force of those piercing blue eyes been settled on him with such utter disdain, Marius cannot help but think, he would have been halfway to Albequerque by now. Grantaire, on the other hand, seems to lack any of that somewhat important stuff the poets - or whoever - call "a will to live", for no sooner has Enjolras adjusted his position on the armrest has he taken back up the abandoned train of thought in an even louder, high-pitched whine than Marius had thought possible.

"But yeah!" His eyes are unfocused and glazed as he reaches to sling an arm around Marius's shoulders, and his breath reeks of wine. "I'll have you know, I was doing an incredibly artistic rendition of Moses parting the Red Sea. I could have been selling tickets to that. I would have won Tonys for that, Enjolras, and you don't just walk on stage during a Tony-award winning production and interrupt because of silly things like, _oh I don't know_, a bit of ash on a kitchen counter. No - " He thrusts the palm of his hand into Enjolras's face and, to Marius's surprise, is obeyed. "No, I am speaking now, and where was I? Yes, exactly - did anyone ever run in and stop a production of Henry VIII just because of a few flames? Absolutely fucking not. And I'd like to think the Globe was a little more valuable to some than your monument-to-the-1%-money-hanging-out-of-glass-bowl s-like-fucking-spaghetti old brownstone, and they didn't interrupt, because that was art. They let that fucker burn down. That was art, and I am an artist, and what's more - "

"Grantaire - "

"Grantaire is not available, please leave a message after the beep. Beep. Fuck you. Anyway, it's not like I was the only one trashing your kitchen, you arrogant tit. And I'll have you know, I fully object to playing the Polyneices to Courfeyrac's Eteocles. I fully object. I never even liked Antigone. I thought it was boring as shit from Sophocles and barely tolerable from Anouilh. So, there, objection. Objection sustained." - he winces at the impact of his own fist against his kneecap - "This is a free country - sort of - and I'm a minority, so I have rights."

"Being Jewish does not count as a minority in New York, Grantaire."

"Extra rights. And those rights include not being thrown out onto the street to have my eyes picked at by carrion for doing something that _everyone else_ was doing, just because I'm louder, or cooler, or have a more demanding stage presence, or you need to make an example of someone, or whatever else. And - no, Courfeyrac, personal space. Respect it. You can't shut me up like it'll wash the guilt from your hands of having encouraged - I repeat, for dramatic effect, _encouraged_ - him to physically assault me in defence of an inaminate object. Is a counter even an inanimate object? How are we defining inanimate objects here? Webster's or Oxford? Some would argue that it's more of a wall fixture, and I might agree, though that probably depends on how it's attached. Anyway, is this not all a violation of the Geneva Convention? I didn't even get a fair trial. And the death sentence is illegal in most of the industrialised Western nations you wank off to when you think you're alone, so you can wipe that if-looks-could-kill glare right off your face, Enjolras. I am an ideal, and that ideal is freedom and free love. You cannot kill an ideal. And if you did, you'd probably be violating the Geneva Convention again - for the second time in one night, which must be a record somewhere, look it up - "

"Grant-_aire_ - "

"What did you, buy a year-long subscription to my name? Stop it. Your intonation is all off. And I told you to get your hands off me, Courfeyrac; I'm not done yet. You - " his finger nearly brushing the tip of Enjolras's nose, he thrusts a hand into Marius's stomach to support himself and rises to his knees on the edge of the couch, sending Courfeyrac flying, " - you wouldn't even let me touch your liquor while everyone else - and you're damn right I am going to make use of repetition as a literary device again, because this is important - _everyone else_ - got to have whatever they wanted. Where is the equality in that, I ask? Everyone can drink Jack Daniels and Graygoose, but Grantaire is downgraded to wine? Grantaire has to make due with a vintage 1994 and be thankful for it, because Grantaire is lucky to have been invited at all. Grantaire is Archias abandoned to the mercy of the courts because Cicero was too busy egging Enjolras on - in violation of basically every syllable of the Geneva Convention, I will have your heads for that - and fuck Grantaire, basically. If he gets kicked out of the party, it's his own fault for not fitting in. Forget friendship. Obliviate - what's comraderie? How's that for solidarity? You're a terrible communist, Courfeyrac. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Silence falls like an iron curtain across the room as Grantaire's speech comes to an abrupt halt and he fall backs, coughing furiously, onto Marius's lap.

"We're not," huffs Courfeyrac indignantly, patting himself down as he rises to his feet, "communists. No one here is a communist. We are - "

"I'm a communist."

Almost as soon as the words part his lips, Marius regrets them. The air in Enjolras's parlour goes taught under the tug of seven sharply inhaled breaths. To their credit, Enjolras and Grantaire are still glaring at one another, entirely unfazed, but they are the only ones. Even Combeferre has managed to somehow apparate himself to hover over the armrest to Marius's left, and he is struck suddenly by the throbbing bore of fourteen eyes into his own forehead.

"Er," he begins cautiously, clearing his throat. "I mean, what could be better than pure equality? Distribution of property? No one's rich and no one's poor - Utopia à la Marx?"

It's Combeferre who speaks, his hand pausing to rest only briefly on Marius's shoulder as he polishes his glasses with the other: "The freedom to choose for one's self," he says simply, then turns on his heel, makes a pit-stop into the kitchen for a bottle of spring water and climbs back up the stairs to his own bedroom.

The party pretty much dissolves itself after that, with Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, the blond in the pink sweatshirt (who hastily introduces himsels as Jehan before bolting down the front stoop) and Joly taking off in the direction of 96th St station, while Courfeyrac buzzes through the kitchen to tidy up at least a little bit before calling a cab for Marius and himself. Marius strikes a stiff, uncomfortable pose beside the couch, his hands crossed over his chest, teeth working viciously gainst the sides of his cheeks while he watches Enjolras begrudgingly spread a blanket over the sleeping heap of holey t-shirt and tangled hair that is Grantaire.

Everything has gone to shit; of this Marius is certain. He should never have opened his horrible, massive mouth. There are probably rules about talking politics at parties, or confessing to be a communist at parties, or any and all of the above. Hell, there are probably rules about being Marius at parties, and he has broken all of them. None of Courfeyrac's friends will want to have him back after this. Why would they want to have him back?

But then, Grantaire, waking briefly to wave goodbye, says, "G'night, Mar... rus. Don' let these commies bring ya down."

And even Enjolras, guiding him to the door with a hand at the small of his back, nods in farewell and offers them the smallest of smiles.

Well then, thinks Marius, head pressed against the cool of the taxi window as he watches the darkened street drift past them, things could certainly have gone a lot worse.


End file.
